Dark Delicacies
by Cardinal Robbins
Summary: SVU AU John Munch and Sarah Zelman argue over a case that threatens to tear them apart. Does John finally walk away and find comfort with another woman? Read and find out! You may be surprised at his actions. Rated M.


Dark Delicacies

by Cardinal Robbins

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Disclaimer: I'd take John Munch in a moment, if he were mine. But he's not. Everyone else is, however. Mine, mine, mine! LOL! Has Munch finally stepped out on Zelman? This is porn with plot, dear readers…you have been warned, as this has sex in it.

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"This is the last goddamned time you've turned my shirts into room fresheners, with all your artificially-scented womanly laundry potions, you got that?" John Munch snapped, unleashing the third vitriolic salvo in his argument with Sarah Zelman.

"If you had the common sense to bring your own laundry soap, or to wash your shirts at home occasionally, this wouldn't happen," she shot back rancorously, her tone warning him her temper was well on its way to volcanic. "Take them back to your place and douse them in Drakkar Noir – or maybe wash them again with your own detergent for a change!"

He was surprised she'd started yelling, but it deterred him not one bit. "Oh yeah? Fine! I'm going to take them home and wash them fifty times in unscented Tide, so I don't flush everyone out of the bullpen with magnolia-gardenia-rosewater-mango-rainwater essence of a mountain stream's cool breeze!" Munch was fully enraged now, aware there would be no turning back at this point.

"Sometimes, my hand to God, I swear to you it would have been easy to join the ATF and not have to put up with your shit," she snapped.

"You think the ATF would have you? If they did, you'd be dead in a week," he added, loudly taking a dig at her propensity for inadvertently collecting potentially-lethal metal projectiles. It was always a point of contention with her.

"Maybe I'll join the U.S. Marshals, instead!" Her arms were crossed, firmly locked over her chest in a gesture that should have warned him to back off – and quick.

"You can sleep with Stranahan and I bet they'll promote you immediately," he said, his ire increasing with each passing moment. "I should go. I wouldn't want to interrupt your opportunity to call him, begging for a job." He knew he'd pushed too far, but maybe she did want Danny after all. It was his innermost fear, if he even dared admit it to himself.

"Then leave, John, and don't let the front door hit you on your way out!" Zelman shrieked back, about to go silent on him. If he pushed her beyond that point, the rift would deepen to a chasm.

"It might not be easy to walk out, but you know I can," he snarled.

"Nothing's stopping you," she raged. "When you're lonely tonight, hopefully you won't fight with your right hand like you've been fighting with me." She knew that was literally a hit below the belt, but she didn't care. If he needed release, she wasn't in any mood to provide it.

"Why doesn't it surprise me you'd think of using sex against me?" he asked rhetorically, momentarily stunned by her verbal blow.

"Because you're so predictable, John," she hissed. She started to walk into the kitchen, but turned to face him, unwilling to yield the upper hand in their battle.

"I'm 'predictable'? Then maybe one of us needs a new partner, in every sense of the word!" She'd stung him and he wanted revenge. By the look on her face, he'd gained it, but at what cost?

"Just…go!" she yelled, her face reddening. At that moment, she truly didn't care if he walked out for keeps. They'd turned arguing into a marathon event that morning; sniping and snarking at each other before brewing tea, trading barbs over matzo brei, then the walls came down as they declared open warfare on each other.

"That's exactly what I'm doing right now – and you can kiss my ass, Sarah!" he yelled at full-volume, grabbing his shirts and shoving them into the pilot's bag he usually kept at her place.

"As if you could get so lucky for my lips to touch your tuchis ever again!"

He took once last look at her, slender arms still crossed over her chest, and stormed out with a loud rapport. He'd slammed the door so hard, walls to either side of the doorway had shaken.

Their fights, while infrequent, compensated in dramatic intensity and overall volume. As Zelman stared an invisible crater in her apartment door several minutes later, a knock startled her. A little quick to apologize, you bastard, she thought viciously. She reluctantly moved to peer through the peep-hole, then opened the door.

"Rochelleh, what on earth set your gentleman into getting his mad on like that?" Mrs. Goldstein asked, using her pet name for Sarah, derived from her middle name. "Was he so upset he had to leave in such a tsimmes? Johnny should know better than to yell at a lady," she chastised gently. "Come next door, have some tea and sponge cake or something. You'll feel better when we talk."

Sarah dutifully entered her neighbor's flawlessly decorated apartment with a long sigh. "Bubbeh Sadie," she began, "it really wasn't all his fault. We had a horrible week, both of us were in a terrible mood and somehow we started tearing at each other." The older woman motioned to the sofa and Sarah sat, obviously miserable. "It had nothing to do with anything – we've both been distraught over a case." She got up and followed Mrs. Goldstein to the kitchen, which was more conducive to heart-to-heart talks.

"Look, Rochelleh," she began, "you and Johnny love each other at least as much as Avram and I did. You think in fifty-three years we had no feuding? Don't kid yourself." She reached over and placed her hand on Sarah's arm. "Sit and talk to me about this case. You'll feel better," she insisted. "You talk while I brew us some tea and slice some cake. Tell me why it's made you both so unhappy."

Sadie filled the teapot and put it on the stove, then took a marble cake from the bread box. "Nu?" she prodded gently.

"You know how I feel about telling you, Bubbeh, since it's so…sordid," she replied. "You're a great-grandmother, you should only hear happy things at this point."

"I've lived a long life, you know, and I've seen a lot of things over my years in New Jersey, Miami, New York, everywhere," she asserted. "There's truly nothing you could say to shock or upset me, you know that. Now do what your bubbeh asks," she added softly, keenly aware Zelman needed to discuss what had happened.

Sarah took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Her hands were still shaking, the toll extracted by her argument with John. "It was a doctor… He was a pediatrician, Richard Flacco," she began. "His daughter, Deborah, also a pediatrician – she was helping him select boys to abuse from his roster of patients." She nodded her thanks as Sadie put a napkin, silverware and a small plate of marble cake in front of her.

"This man, he was abusing how many children?" she asked, taking the teapot from the stovetop.

"Twelve to sixteen," Sarah said, "as near as we can tell. It could be more, but I'm not sure we'll ever know." Her expression was a study in misery and pain, so much so Mrs. Goldstein put a mug of tea in front of her, then wrapped her arms around Zelman's shoulders. "His daughter took him out with a single gunshot, then she put the .38 to her head and pulled the trigger." Sarah shook her head as tears slipped from her dark eyes, failure, frustration and grief tracing down her cheeks. "We can't convict a dead man and he knew it. So did his daughter, which is why they had a pact."

Bubbeh Sadie didn't move, her arms still around Sarah as Zelman allowed the tears to flow. She sat there, unmoving, silently devastated there would be no conviction, no justice for the boys who had been abused. They would live the rest of their lives as victims failed by the system. If only she or Huang had somehow surmised the doctors had their exit plan in place almost from the start.

When Munch had found the document explaining it all, taunting them on the computer screen in Richard Flacco's office, he'd gathered all his self-control or he'd have swept the desk clean in a crash of rage – to hell with the equipment and its evidence.

"We failed those boys. I failed them all," she insisted, "by not knowing those two were planning all along to take themselves out, if they were ever suspected." She wiped away the tears, knowing there would probably be more – many more – at some point in the near future. "If we'd been able to find them even thirty minutes earlier, we could have taken them into custody. We completely missed our chance."

Sadie smoothed Sarah's hair and hugged her tightly. "We both know, it wasn't your fault – or John's," she said softly. "When people are determined, they'll do what they'll do and the rest is not ours to feel guilty over." Her hand went to Sarah's and squeezed. "It's even harder for Johnny, because he has to be strong for you."

"I know… I asked him to talk with my friend, George, but he wouldn't," she said. "That was what started the arguing." She took a sip of tea, poked a fork into the marble cake and shrugged. "He shouldn't be carrying this around on his own. Maybe I should try to call him, but we'll just get into it all over again."

"Give him time, Rochelleh," Sadie insisted. "He'll come around sooner than you know."

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Hours later, Sarah sat on the couch, her eyes and cheeks reddened from crying. She listened to the television as The Discovery Channel showed a retired FBI Special Agent – from the Northern California offices – assist a pair of special effects gurus, in yet another spectacular explosion at a blasting range.

She dug her spoon deeper into a pint of Ben & Jerry's, ferreting out the caramel stripe before she got up and put the ice cream back into the freezer. Eating ice cream wasn't any fun without John trying to wrestle the spoon away from her, so he could tunnel out the best parts of whatever blend they'd compromised on.

She trudged back into the living room and plopped down, idly thinking of taking a shower. Her cell-phone rang, the number on its caller I.D. all too familiar. "Let him sit and stew," she whispered to an empty apartment. "Serves his sorry ass right." It rang a few more times, then she opened the flip phone in time to hear the signal drop or disconnect.

She thought for a second before grudgingly leaving the couch behind, knowing she'd simply fall asleep in front of the TV if she didn't move around. A hot shower was what she needed, to chase the stresses of the past week away. She refused to think any farther ahead than that.

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John was tired of sulking, sick of second-guessing and he felt as if the walls of his apartment were closing in on him. He knew what he wanted – a change. A profound change, one that would throw his life back into some semblance of order, rather than a cycle of working and sparring with people as frustrated as he was. He pulled himself off the sofa, trudged into his 'vinyl room' to put on some jazz, then made a decision.

John Munch had thought a long time before deciding, aware he simply wasn't satisfied with life as he knew it.

He walked into his bedroom after a shower and shave, reached into his closet and pulled out a deep gray suit. Another reach brought out a crisp white shirt, which he would couple with a blue tie. Before long, he was dressed to impress, checking his wallet for his Visa card and available cash, then locking the door behind him.

Munch hailed a taxi with one place on his mind. Aja. A club with Asian jazz-fusion, from the likes of Hiroshima and other top groups of their scene. The art deco bar was a magnet for those who had 'the look;' as recently as three weeks ago he'd studied the chic crowd, as they sipped classic cocktails and highballs on tall Oriental fan-backed chairs.

He and Sarah had been there before, but this night he entered alone and hoped not to leave without suitable accompaniment. His carry concealed, his badge well-hidden, he nodded to the doorman who admitted him without comment. As the moon climbed in the city's sky, others would be forced to wait in line outside, to be admitted on the whim of a suede-clad male model who knew how to manufacture the perfect crowd.

The back-bar's mirrored blue and green glow reflected off his shades as he took a seat at the right-most end of the dark granite counter. He ordered a Manhattan, using the time before he was served to size up the possibilities.

Attorneys, he thought. ADAs. The place was rife with them. Accountants, architects, advisors, too. He reflected on the alliteration of the crowd, those in the know about the affairs of others, able to help them navigate life's biggest decisions with an element of ease. John didn't exactly feel out of place, at least not with his purposes as they were then, but he couldn't help but miss the informality of the local cop bar. He'd been sitting there almost forty minutes, nursing his drink, trying to force his thoughts from what had taken place earlier.

And then, there she was.

He saw her as she walked in, virtually striding on the three-inch stiletto heels of her 'do me' pumps.

Her tight black leather skirt hugged her hips and caressed her to mid-thigh. She crossed her legs, the lace at the top of her silk stockings momentarily flashed against her skin. As she tossed her head, long loose raven curls shook past her shoulders while she flirted with the bartender. John could tell her order had been bumped to the front of the queue, as she accepted it a few moments later with a wide smile. Her green satin blouse was cut low, giving the barkeep a view Munch silently envied.

Silver bangles interlinked on her wrist as she raised her glass to toast her server, the smile that could not be ignored rimmed in red lipstick, a subtle sheen which only enhanced her elegance.

John's mind drifted back to a woman Stanley Bolander had dated briefly, who played a flawless violin to Stanley's own halting strings. The woman had been perfect, far too much so for the salt of the earth Detective Bolander who still wore his wedding band, despite being long divorced. He had wanted Stanley's woman then, but now he had the opportunity to meet someone who'd have put Bolander's brunette to shame.

He would find a way to win her, if only for a night, to assuage the hurt and loneliness of the week's frustrations and the day's embittered exchanges. With her, he felt sure he would find the release he craved, but first there would be the challenge of the conquest.

Many of those whom he considered his competition moved to the dance floor of laminated glass, its winding koi stream visible beneath the feet of gyrating bodies. John looked down the bar to the black-haired, buxom lady and made eye contact. He gave her his best smile, raising his glass in salute to her flawless sense of style.

She smiled back at him, deftly lifting the Maraschino cherry from her drink, swinging it playfully before languidly taking it into her mouth. Ever so slightly, she tipped her head toward the empty seat next to her, arching a brow and daring him to take the seat by her side.

He hesitated, but only for a moment, a flash of thought directed toward his relationship with Sarah Zelman, pushed aside in the bitterness of their argument. Munch picked up his drink, moved deliberately toward his conquest and sat down.

"It looks like I'm having what you're having," she said, her hand on her glass.

"Then we have something in common already," he replied, able to see her face close enough to discern even the smallest details. Her gaze was steady in its intensity, green eyes that shaded more deeply because of her satin blouse. A double strand of pearls lay against her neck and chest, just above the slightest edge of lacy bra. Silently jubilant, he celebrated the sight of her cleavage by ordering them both another drink.

She took her time with her drink, as much as she leisurely sized him up. He knew he was being evaluated, compared and re-evaluated because the old adage was true: A woman knows within the first five minutes if she's going to sleep with a man or not.

John knew the bartender well, sure he could get away with a cigarette in a public place if he kept it low-key. He pulled out a brand new pack of Benson & Hedges, opened it and offered one to the lady beside him. "Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked, secretly relieved when she pulled one from the pack with nails the same red as her lipstick.

"Not at all…thank you," she cooed, leaning in as he lit her cigarette. "I haven't had one in months, I must admit." Emerald stud earrings caught the light from the bar, the gleam turning to a sparkle as she moved her head.

"I could say the same," he replied. When he was exceptionally stressed or nervous, he'd occasionally allow himself a smoke to take the edge off. He realized he needed one now, even more so than earlier in the day. He nodded to his acquaintance as the man brought over an ashtray. Munch took in a long drag, letting it out slowly as the tension of the day began to ease. "My name is David," he offered. "David Munch." It wasn't technically a lie, per se, since it was his middle name. "I'm pleased to meet you, Miss – "

"Camina," she finished. "I prefer to be called Victoria." They shook hands, more as a formality than anything, but it gave her a moment to realize he had long fingers and well-kept nails. Another point in his favor, he hoped, noticing her glance.

She adjusted her position on the barstool, casually allowing her leg to drape against John's. "A word of warning… I never answer to 'Vicky,'" she insisted, her breath warm in his ear. "But I'm sure you'd never make that mistake."

"I've made a lot of mistakes in my time, but that won't be one of them," he replied, gazing into her green eyes. He noticed she had an ever so slight Massachusetts accent, coupled with a lilting laugh, soft and musical. "What brings you here? The music, perhaps, or the stellar fusion cuisine?"

"Both…or perhaps neither," she admitted. "More than not, the opportunity to socialize with someone other than the business commuter crowd." She took a long sip of her drink, her gaze on his dark eyes. "My business gets a bit wearing, day in, day out."

"What business would that be," John ventured, "if you don't mind my asking?" He felt her leg warm against his, momentarily resisting the urge to move closer.

"I'm a flight attendant for Jet Blue, known these days for their inability to cope with heavy snow on runways." She made a face, recalling the inordinate number of flights left snowbound in the New York winter. "Quid pro quo," she said pointedly, as a sly smile graced her lips.

"Private detective," he decided, "which isn't half as exciting as it sounds, but enough cheating spouses comfortably pay my bills every month." He finished his drink as the bartender looked his way hopefully. He nodded to the man, signaling another round for both him and his latest acquaintance. "Would you like to join me for dinner?"

"No, not as much as I'd like to talk while we have another drink," she asserted. "I'm not here for the impeccable cuisine. There are nights when dining takes far too much time away from…other…pleasurable experiences." She regarded Munch critically for a moment; her eyes traced from his salt and pepper hair to the cut of his suit, down to the shine of his wing-tips. It was obvious she approved of what she saw, her expression made it clear.

"We could talk over dinner," he offered again, hoping she'd accept. He hadn't eaten since morning, not exactly in the mood for food, until he thought of the chef's original take on sweet and sour pork.

"We could, if we'd like to wait over an hour for a table," she countered lightly, once again her lips close enough to make his blood race. "Is there another option you'd like to…explore?" she asked, hearing his controlled intake of breath.

The hunter was suddenly being hunted, he thought, thrilled at the possibility of being alone with her. "Domino's delivers," he quipped, grinning slyly.

"I'll bet you do, too," she breathed, brushing his hand with hers. "Or at least you'd like to…" Her eyes held a dare. She waited a long moment, her leg warm against his.

He raised his brows a bit, not contemplating for very long. "Would you like to see my place, perhaps listen to some music?" he asked softly, awaiting her answer.

"Hmmmm… Why not?" She'd made her decision at last. Munch paid their tab and escorted her to the front door. He could feel the gaze of more than one man resting on his conquest, his mood triumphant as he hailed a taxi. She smiled as he opened the door of the cab for her, easily sliding in beside her.

John leaned forward, gave his address to the driver and then vowed to relax. She was with him; he had spotted the woman he wanted and invited her to his place. Most amazing of all, she hadn't required more drinks and an expensive dinner to pave the way for whatever would transpire next. He slipped his hand in hers, but she didn't react the way he expected. No warm squeeze of affirmation, instead she used more covertly sexual body language than he'd seen anyone display in a very long time.

Patience, he reminded himself. You have all night…or at least most of it, he reasoned. Whatever you do, let her make the first move. Judging by how their encounter had started, he was absolutely sure she would.

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"Such as it is, my humble domicile," he said, closing and locking the door behind them.

Victoria looked across the room at the stereo, with vinyl records all around it. "You're right. Music would be nice," she said, verbally nudging him away from openly staring at her. "I'll leave it to your preference." She watched as he nodded and walked into the small room. He was cat-like, lithe, graceful. Would he be as such while they indulged in having leisurely sex on his sofa? As she heard Dean Martin's sultry voice singing something decidedly Italian, she wondered. "Your taste in music is exceptional."

"So is my taste in pizza," he quipped. "Mind if I call Domino's?" He realized he hadn't eaten since the early morning serving of snark atop matzo brei, which had grown colder with each volatile remark made to Zelman. A growling stomach, he decided, was certainly not sexy.

"Go ahead," she whispered in his ear. She laughed slyly, as he went to the phone and ordered.

John went into the kitchen and took out small plates, paper napkins and two fluted glasses. From the refrigerator, he pulled out a bottle of Frexinet sparkling wine, uncorking it without fanfare and pouring for them both. As Victoria walked into the kitchen, he handed off her glass. "To your beauty," he murmured, catching himself before his usual 'L'chayim,' which he and Sarah said by mutual custom.

"To a night we'll both remember," she replied, lifting her glass to his. She sipped cautiously, leaving the slightest suggestion of her lipstick on the flute. Camina saw him put his glass on the counter and she followed suit, laughing as he took her in an embrace and swayed with her to the music.

"You do dance, don't you?" Munch asked, thinking she would, considering the proximity of their ages. "I promise not to do too much of this," he added, dipping her easily as she lifted her leg more reminiscent of a tango than what he had in mind. He pulled her back to him, her lips against his for another sultry kiss.

The pizza arrived, John accepting the delivery and rewarding the driver with a generous tip. As he closed the door, he realized Victoria had settled their plates and drinks on the coffee table. He brought the pizza over and sat down beside her, watching as she crossed her long legs and reached past him for a slice of Brooklyn-style with mushrooms.

Their idle conversation backed by Frank Sinatra's flawlessly-arranged stylings, fueled by a second bottle of sparkling wine, Munch leaned over and kissed her as he relished the moment. She playfully dabbed a spot of tomato sauce on his cheek, licking it from him with the tip of her tongue as he closed his eyes, stirred by the heat of her.

"Isn't this where you say, 'Coffee, tea or me?'" he joked, remembering the way stewardesses – now flight attendants – were regarded in the age of hot babes 'flying the friendly skies.' He laughed as she smiled and leaned back for a moment, watching his expression.

"You think I'm some cheap slut, don't you, David?" she asked insistently, suddenly moving forward to loosen his tie. She smiled as he deftly unbuttoned her blouse, revealing a lacy red pushup bra.

"Please, Victoria, I'd never say that…but frankly, I'm counting on it." He hesitated for a moment, deliberating whether or not to take off her brassiere before deciding it was more alluring to leave it. She reached up and took off his glasses, looking deeply into his dark eyes.

"You're obviously ready for it," she said, as he pulled off his suit coat and reached behind him. "Cuffs? Aren't those a bit passé?" She unzipped him, her dexterity equaling his when it came to getting cheap thrills.

"Not cuffs…a condom," he replied, pulling a ribbed Trojan from his wallet.

She slipped it on him moments before he took her, lace panties off, before she could even remove her pumps. Victoria yanked him into a kiss, his response rougher than she anticipated, yet infinitely satisfying.

He slipped his arms around her, feeling the heels of her stilettos jammed against his legs as she moaned, almost scratching him deeply enough to be felt through dress shirt and undershirt. He thrust deeper as she ran her hands through his hair, forcing him down into another lengthy kiss. Once she released him, he pushed her arms above her head, pinning her as he continued. It wasn't making love, it was having sex – primal, both of them wanting no connection except something fast and physical as they climaxed. Neither had so much as entirely undressed for it, the urgency extreme between them.

She called his name, not the name he was used to but the name he had given, having taken from him what she wanted. And John, hot and breaking into a sweat, had achieved what he'd intended as well – almost collapsing on her in a release that defied more than merely sex. It washed away the hurt, tension and anger of the days and weeks before; something that hadn't been possible with Sarah.

They lay together on his sofa, pressed against each other, his right arm beneath her neck as his left hand cupped one of her breasts. Both slept dreamlessly, so deeply neither thought about the other, as they were numbed by the satisfaction of their initial encounter.

Munch awoke some time later, 12:30 in the morning according to his watch. He moved, waking Victoria, a grin on his face as she ran a hand through her disheveled curls. "Back in a moment," he assured her, slowly moving from the sofa and trudging to the bathroom.

His momentary departure gave her more than enough time to locate her purse, opening it to pull out strawberry lip gloss and a condom equally berry-flavored. She pouted slightly, applied gloss and ripped the top from the Ramses wrapper.

When John walked back into the living room, he was ready and hoped she was as well. They embraced, more as a courtesy than with affection, after which he took her hand and led her to the kitchen. The table had been cleared of case files, random paperwork and newspapers earlier, the polished wooden surface beckoning to them both.

But first, she motioned to a chair next to the table, before she eased him out of his slacks. He helped her out of her clothing as well, her now-missing leather skirt revealing nothing but her bra, silk thigh-high stockings and those black satin pumps he wanted to feel against him once more.

Dressed in nothing now, he sat down and leaned back in the chair as she smoothed protection on him, her glossed lips pleasuring him as close to release as she dared. He wanted to watch her doing him, but the intensity of feeling forced his eyes closed while he concentrated on not peaking too soon.

Suddenly, he ran his hand through her brunette curls and breathed, "Don't…not all the way. I want to take you on the table, before we go any further." He slipped his arms under hers and lifted her, turning her as she hoisted herself to the table's edge. He pulled her toward him; effortlessly, he slipped inside her and fell into a rhythm which drove them both into a frenzy. Her silken-sheathed legs pulled him even closer as she pressed her cheek against his chest, her sultry whispers spurring him to push even deeper and more fervently.

He could feel her legs subtly change position, sending a new wave of sensation through him. She raked satin down the side of his leg, its texture sending electric heat tracing down while he groaned in a climax even more powerful than before. He held her as she trembled against him, shaking from the waves of pleasure he'd provided her.

John excused himself for a moment, while she lay back on the table, her breath coming in short gasps. Despite having slept for a time, she was tired once more from their heated sexual conquests. Each time, he satisfied her more yet it extracted a price in their mutual fatigue. While she could have simply dressed, called for a taxi and left, she was curious to discover just how far he would go.

Victoria Camina also had to admit the harsh reality: She was consumed by his sexual prowess.

He walked into the kitchen, took her hand and gently pulled her up, then eased her off the table. "You weren't thinking of leaving, were you?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"Not at all," she admitted. "However, I was thinking of a time-out on your sofa."

He laughed at her turn of phrase. "It would be rude of me to leave you on the sofa, when my bed easily accommodates two." She followed him back to his bedroom, which was Spartan in some respects yet highly acceptable. Once he pulled back the comforter and top sheet to slip into bed, she made a show of removing her bra, stockings and pumps in an impromptu strip-tease, captivating him.

"Until the next time we awaken," she whispered seductively, sliding into bed next to him. Oddly, rather than taking the moment to enjoy some post-coital cuddling, she opted to grab an extra pillow to hug, sleeping with her body turned away from his.

Around 4:15, Victoria awoke first, making her way through John's apartment, idly thinking of a silent departure. As she returned across the living room, however, she remembered they hadn't finished the bottle of Frexinet he had opened. She picked it up, along with her purse, and carried both into the bedroom.

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Victoria took a long sip of champagne, careful not to swallow the sparkling liquid as she pleasured him. The carbonation danced as he stiffened even more, the sensation unique and exhilarating especially as she worked her magic. Once more, she brought him to the brink of climax, backing off and repeating the cycle twice. Suddenly, she swallowed the Frexinet, gently releasing him as she reached for the condom she'd taken from its packet.

He kept his eyes closed while she slipped the sheath on him, then poured a few drops of lubricant on to her hands. She rubbed her hands together, picked up the double strand of pearls and slipped them through her fingers. Finally, she coiled the pearls around him, holding them firmly as she began to stroke his length, where previously she had enticed him with champagne.

He moaned at the new sensation of the slick pearls against him, the texture and motion driving every thought from his mind, save for his rapidly building climax. John was an adventurous partner, always open to experimentation, but this was something he'd never experienced before – as she realized when his entire body shook with profound release.

"You're incredible," he almost gasped, as he gathered his remaining strength and left the bed. "Now I know why every woman should be given a strand of pearls at some point."

"Pearls, a lace bra and a power drill," she quipped. "Three things no self-respecting woman should be without." Victoria slipped between the sheets as John left the room; by the time he returned, she was sound asleep with a slight smile on her face.

He lay down beside her, considering whether or not to move closer and wrap his arms around her. Considering she hadn't shown interest in cuddling earlier, he left her to her dreams and quickly fell asleep himself.

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Six o'clock came, their internal alarm clocks waking them despite the long night. John blinked heavily, wondering exactly where he'd left his glasses, as Victoria pushed back the comforter. "Last night was delightfully hot," she breathed, her body next to his, her complex perfume all around him on the sheets and pillowcases. "Mind if I use your shower?"

"Not if I'm in it, too," he quipped, pulling her close.

"I shower solo, David," she replied, trying to extricate herself without causing his feelings permanent damage. "May I?"

"Be my guest," he said, feeling only slightly rebuffed. As she left his bed he took the opportunity to run his hand up her thigh to caress her backside. She looked over her shoulder and rewarded him with a smile. "It's been fun, hon," she said simply, walking off toward the bathroom.

Not long after, he heard the shower start and thought of Sarah. She'd never refused him, always giving him first dibs on the hot water. He lay in his bed, 'their' bed, surrounded by the scent of someone he didn't really know; suddenly he missed Zelman desperately. All he wanted was to lay near her and be close, to make-up for the argument that wasn't about laundry but an outpouring of momentary failure, over a case that shouldn't have come between them.

He sighed, hoping there was a graceful way to rid his place of Victoria Camina.

He inwardly shrugged, aware she seemed rather intent on leaving without much conversation. It made him miss Sarah even more, because they didn't simply chit-chat after making love, they communicated as completely as their physical union. Both were always so deeply attuned to the other, it was effortless. And yet he had violated all that by starting an absurd war of words over something as inconsequential as his shirts.

John lay back against the pillows, wishing for her. No. Longing for her.

JMJMJMJMJMJMJMJMJMJM

He heard footsteps several minutes later, the shower no longer running. A towel-wrapped brown-eyed strawberry-blonde, stripped of makeup and erotic lingerie appeared in the doorway to his bedroom. "Hey, John," she said seductively, "join me in the shower? I'll even let you wash my hair," she offered, knowing how much he loved to do so.

Munch immediately got out of bed and followed her, asking, "You got tired of being Victoria?" he asked, grinning.

"Those green contacts were killing me. At least the nail polish was water-based and came off easily enough," Sarah replied lightly. "It was fun getting out some of my clothes from the FBI decoy days, though," she admitted. "I was relieved when you finally started getting into it; for a moment, over drinks, I wasn't so sure you were with me."

"Maybe it took me a while, since I was still calming down after our feuding, but then it was easy to lose myself in our incendiary little improvisation," John admitted. "It's a good thing I had my Glock with me," he asserted, "in case someone else went after my beautiful 'decoy.' You're far too good at that type of work. No wonder Cragen gets worried."

She smiled, trying for her best nonchalant look but failing. "He gets concerned because it's hard to hide a piece, unless I wear a jacket."

"I get worried, too," he admitted, "whenever you're out with no carry. You know our rule."

"John, you were packing," she reminded him, "so technically I didn't break our rule." They had an agreement; Sarah would not go out after dark without a sidearm, unless she was with him. Despite her street-smarts and FBI background, he felt it was his responsibility to make sure she was kept safe.

"I was almost afraid you were too mad at me to catch our signal," he said. He'd called, let the phone ring almost long enough for voicemail to catch it, then hung up as she answered. It was easy for her to deduct he'd be at Aja, because earlier in the week they'd talked of going there for drinks and dinner.

She'd recognized it, but wasn't sure she was in the mood to play. "Well, it took me a little while to decide, too, I have to admit. I also had to brush off Victoria; hadn't used the wig or that accent since I was involved in a white-collar sting with the Bureau."

"I couldn't decide if you were a long-lost Kennedy or maybe Katharine Hepburn's great-grandchild," he admitted, laughing softly.

"Either way, you know I wouldn't have left you alone for too long," she admitted, "in case you did decide to start carousing. You're pretty smooth with the pick-up techniques, handsome."

"I've cheated on a lot of women in my time, but I'd never step out on you," he said earnestly. "If you hadn't shown up by the time I'd finished my second drink, I'd have grabbed some daisies and come knocking on your door to beg forgiveness." He punctuated it with a long kiss, as if to seal his intentions.

"I know you wouldn't have strayed… You wouldn't have had to beg my forgiveness, either." She put her hands on his shoulders, an awkward silence enveloping them for a moment. "I'm sorry we fought yesterday morning," Sarah said, watching his expression closely. "I really didn't mean any of it, sweetheart. I think we needed to vent some serious pressure."

"I'm sorry, too," he replied softly, "because I pushed too far for no reason. You know it had nothing to do with my shirts, right? It was all about the case. We'd been through hell and we accidentally took it out on each other." He kissed her, snuggling against her neck for a moment. "Will you forgive me, babe?"

"Of course," she said, "but I think you know I already did." She gently bit her lip and looked at him. "That was some wild night, wasn't it? I hope no one saw us play our seduction game." Sarah remembered it was, after all, a place that drew the Assistant District Attorney crowd most of the time. They walked together toward the bathroom, arms casually draped around each other.

"They can spread all the rumor and innuendo they want," he said proudly. "But if someone asks me, 'Who was that brunette you were with?' you'll know I'm innocent – even if I can't prove it." He smiled appreciatively as she let her towel slip to the floor, before he took her hand in his. "I'll admit, it was one hell of a night, but I like you better just the way you are," he insisted.

"That's good to know," Sarah said, laughing slyly, "because Victoria had you then, but I'm only getting started." She heard his laughter and grinned, as she started the shower once more and stepped inside with him.

John felt the hot water pounding on his back as he embraced Sarah in a tight hug, their deep kiss partially obscured by steam. Before he stepped into the shower, he'd seen a leather skirt, satin blouse and sensational raven-black curls laid out neatly over the sink.

Despite having spent the night with her in many respects, he was happier to have his lover back – exactly as she was meant to be.

After a night of endless pleasures and more on the way, he was nevertheless glad Miss Camina was indeed gone. At least for now.

JMJMJMJMJMJMJMJMJMJM – The End – JMJMJMJMJMJMJMJMJMJM

Author's note: Don't feel cheated by the turn this fic took at the end, because a lot of couples do 'play' like this from time to time. If you're looking for more Munch-related fun of all kinds, please visit the Munchagogue dot com.


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